How this place was suspended above the clouds was not apparent, but from the edge, Kaspar could see there was no physical connection with the mountains. The air should have been bitterly cold and thin, perhaps not even sufficient to breathe, but Kaspar found it plentiful and only slightly brisk.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?”
Kaspar turned around.
Where there had only been empty floor now rested a short pedestal, of the same white stone, topped by a flat slab upon which sat a man.
He was fair-skinned, with curly light brown hair and eyes and a strong jaw. His age was difficult to ascertain—for a moment he looked to be Kaspar’s age, while an instant later he looked almost boyish. He wore a simple light blue tunic and white trousers, and he was barefoot.
“Yes,” said Kaspar slowly. “It is a sight.”
The man climbed off the column and when his feet touched the floor, the column vanished. “Few ever get a chance to see it. This is, in a manner of speaking, the Roof of the World.” He came to stand next to Kaspar. “Like many things, I rarely bother to notice it, until I see someone else admiring it, and then I pause to remind myself of how striking it is.
“These are the two highest peaks on the world, did you know?”
“No,” said Kaspar. “I did not.”
“The southern peak is called The Elephant, and is only two feet shorter than the northern peak, which is called The Dragon. Can you imagine? Both over thirty thousand feet and only two feet difference between them?”
“Thirty thousand feet?” Kaspar said. “I should be freezing to death. I hunted giant rams in the mountains of my home, in the high passes which are over ten thousand feet, and some of my men were sick even at that altitude, and it was freezing even in summer. How can this be?”
The man smiled. “It’s simple. You’re not here.”
“Where, then, am I?”
“You’re somewhere else. Now, before you become overly concerned by this, you don’t have a lot of time, so let’s move on to why you’re here.”
“It’s a long story.”
“I know the story. You don’t need to recount it, Kaspar.”
“You know me?”
“I know everything there is to know about you, Kaspar, former Duke of Olasko, from the time you accidentally stepped on Talia’s kitten’s foot and she wouldn’t speak to you for a week—”
“I was twelve!”
“—to what you had for breakfast with Samas.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Kalkin.”
Kaspar said nothing for a moment, then said, “The god?”
The man shrugged. “Labels, titles, categories, are all so…limiting. Just say I’m a ‘being’ and we’ll get along.”
“But…”
Kalkin held up his hand and his smile widened. “We don’t have time for debate. Now, you have some questions, but let’s save time and have me tell you some things, then you can ask a couple of your questions and then we can get you back to the bastion.”
Kaspar could only nod.
Kalkin moved to sit down and suddenly there was a large pale blue divan where before there had been only hard floor. “Please, sit.”
Kaspar looked around and saw another divan behind him. He sat down.
“I’d offer you something to eat or drink, except I know you’re not hungry or thirsty. For some people, it puts them at ease.”
“I’m not sure at this point that’s possible,” Kaspar said softly.
“So, then, where to begin?” Kalkin said, “How about with that thing you’ve been lugging around?”
“Yes,” said Kaspar. “That would be a good place to start.”
“It’s not armor. It’s a construction. What you would consider an animated machine. Imagine if you could have a toymaker build you a large wooden toy that could walk and, for the sake of argument, understand some basic commands and do your bidding. This is to that what a trebuchet is to a slingshot.
“That thing is called a Talnoy.”
“Talnoy?”
“In the language of its creators it loosely translates to ‘very hard to kill.’”
“Kill? I thought you said it was some sort of mechanical device.”
“It is far more than that. It has…a spirit in it, or a soul. It’s…not something that’s easily explained. It’s exactly what Brother Anshu said it was, something very wrong. The soul inside it was not put there willingly.”
Kaspar shook his head. “That’s evil.”
Kalkin said, “Very. I trust you still remember most of Keeper Samas’s instructions on the topic?”
“Yes.”
“Good, because now I’m going to give you more to ponder. As you move from the higher to lower circles or planes, from what we call the First Level—” he made a circular motion in the air “—sort of where we are now, and you move to the Last Level, the laws that govern the universe change. It has been, argued—sometimes for centuries—that each realm has its own set of rules, its own ‘right’ and ‘wrong,’ its own ‘good’ and ‘evil,’ and that everything is relative. Others contend that good exists at one end of the spectrum and evil at the other.
“For the sake of simplicity, just accept that no matter what you think of such discussions, whatever exists in the fifth circle or plane should stay there!”
Kaspar said nothing.
“That thing, the Talnoy, should have stayed in the second circle of creation. It should never have come to Midkemia!”
“How did it get here?” asked Kaspar.
“Very long story, which you don’t have time to hear.”
“Why not, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Well, I do, but not as much as you will. You’re dying.”
Kaspar sat up. “What?”
“You’re not really here. You’re somewhere else, halfway between life and death, and the longer you linger, the closer you get to death, and once you cross that river…” Kalkin shrugged. “There’s only so much I can do.”
“But you’re a god.”
Kalkin waved this away. “I cannot stick my nose in Lims-Kragma’s business. Once you’re in her domain, she’s the only one who can send you back. And she doesn’t make a habit of it. So, knowing time is of the essence, let me make a few points.
“As I said,” he held up a finger, “that thing you carry around should never have been brought to this world.” Kaspar again looked about to speak, and Kalkin lost his smile. “Don’t. All right, one of the Dragon Lords as you call them brought it here as booty. And it was hard-won and…well, they should not have tried to raid into that realm. In any event, it was before my time, and we—whom you call gods—only discovered it was here after the fact.”
“Then why didn’t you send it back?” asked Kaspar.
Kalkin laughed, a harsh barking sound, then shook his head. “Mortals!” He leaned forward. “Don’t you think we would have if we could? We are confined to this realm! We are part of this world.”
“But I was told the Nameless One was confined in another realm?”
Kalkin stood up, obviously impatient. “This always happens when you try to explain.” He turned to face Kaspar. “You don’t have time. So suffice it to say that when the gods you think of as Greater Gods, those Samas would call the Controllers, all put their minds to something, they could achieve it. Now, this has happened once!” He held up one finger and pointed to it. “Once. Got that?”
“You’ve made your point.”
“Good, because now I’m about to make another.”
Kalkin waved his hand and the pavilion vanished. They were in a gray void for a moment, then suddenly they were somewhere else.
They hovered in midair. It was night, and below them was a city, but one unlike anything Kaspar could have imagined. It was massive, without a hint of anything natural. Everywhere he looked, Kaspar could only see buildings, streets, bridges, and people. If one could call them people.
They looked roughly human, but
their proportions were wrong, as if people had somehow been stretched, with legs and arms that were too long for their short torsos. Their faces were also elongated but had enough variation that Kaspar recognized that they were as different from one another as people in any Midkemian city. A few might even have passed through the market square at Olasko with only an occasional odd glance. They were uniformly gray of skin, but so pale that it wasn’t obvious. They wore different-colored clothing, but the colors were muted and dull—grays, greens, even the reds and orange hues lacked vibrancy. The females wore long dresses and some sported hats of an odd fashion, but the males seemed almost uniformly attired in tunics and trousers.
The city was all of dark stone and all in tones ranging from gray to absolute black. Nothing colorful was employed as decoration. Kaspar and Kalkin hovered over a main gate. The construction was unbelievable, for the wall was massive, wide enough that a boulevard topped it, with carts and pedestrians, and carriages pulled by something that looked like an elongated horse or mule, but with reptilian features. The gates below opened into a tunnel that led under this causeway and into a gigantic bailey, between the wall and the first…building? Kaspar realized that there were no individual shops or houses in sight. Everything was connected, as if this city was one massive building interrupted by streets and canals, with thousands or tens of thousands of openings. Even buildings that at first appeared to stand alone, upon closer inspection could be seen to be connected by bridges, enclosed tunnels, and halls. Kaspar’s eye failed to catch much of the detail, for everything appeared to exist on three, four, or more levels, and the illumination was from thousands of torches, so the light was constantly flickering.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Kalkin, and Kaspar turned to look down the road. The grass, if that was what it was, was colorless in the night, as were the distant trees.
“I thought you said you couldn’t come here,” said Kaspar.
“We’re not here. We are merely looking. That’s quite different. Look.”
Kaspar looked and saw the city gates closing for the night. Everyone outside the gate hurried to get inside, and no effort was made to accommodate them. Those at the gates wore black armor not unlike the Talnoy, save they had open-faced helms and lacked the golden trim.
“Why is the gate open so late?”
“It isn’t late,” said Kalkin. “It’s sundown.”
“But the sky is black!”
“Yes,” answered the god. “This world’s sun puts out heat, but little light. Remember what I said before, the laws and rules here are different. If we were here in the flesh, your life would be measured in days. The air itself would slowly poison you. The heat of the sun would slowly blister your skin, and even at night you would find it uncomfortably hot. The water would taste like bitter sulfur and burn like acid.”
The gate closed with a thunderous sound, as if two giant stones struck the earth. Then Kaspar realized that somehow the gates were now part of the wall: cleverly balanced stones, perhaps counterweighted somehow, turned so effortlessly that two men—or whatever these creatures were—could close them alone.
“Observe,” said Kalkin, indicating the road.
A single wagon hurried toward the gate, pulled by one of the mule-like reptiles, and Kaspar saw it was driven frantically by a single creature. “What do you call these…people?”
“They call themselves the Dasati, which in their tongue means ‘people.’ They are as unlike people as dragons. Actually, dragons are more like people than these creatures. This is one of their worlds, Kosridi. It is a regional capital.”
“One of their worlds?”
“Like the Tsurani and some other races, they have means to move from world to world. They are more aggressive than any nation in history.”
“What is occurring?”
“A curfew of sorts. No one is permitted outside the city walls after the gates close.”
“Why? Are there enemies close by?”
“The Dasati have no enemies…on this world, at least. But there are many perils.”
The cart pulled up before the gate and the driver shouted frantically to those up on the wall. The Dasati on the causeway above the gate paused and looked down.
A chatter of conversation erupted and others hurried to watch the man in the cart. Then out of the darkness came a howl.
Kaspar’s blood ran cold at the sound. “What is that?”
“Something analogous to our wolves.”
Creatures raced out of the darkness, leaping across the dark landscape so rapidly that Kaspar only had a hint of their form. When they neared the wall, their hides reflected the torchlight, and Kaspar’s mouth opened in astonishment.
If the things pulling wagons and carts were lizard-mules, this was a thing produced by a wolf mating with a horse. “What is it?”
“It is called a Zarkis,” replied Kalkin.
The creatures were the size of a large pony, with ocher-colored fur around the muzzle, but otherwise they were dark gray in color, with black fur on their legs. Their heads were broad, flat, and the eyes wide set and yellow in the torchlight; and their fangs were as long as Kaspar’s dagger. They moved with astonishing speed and three had the beast of burden down in seconds.
Two others leapt from behind the wagon and one snatched the driver’s head from his shoulders and a moment later, before the body could even collapse, the second creature bit the torso in half. Kalkin observed, “The pitch of life, if you will, the pace and rhythms, are far more extreme than your world’s. Even the plants are tough and hard to kill. The predators of this world are beyond description. Even the prey animals would put up a fight you can hardly imagine should you hunt them. Think of a rabbit with teeth like a razor and the attitude of a wolverine. The people are as unforgiving.”
“Why did no one help him?” asked Kaspar.
“Help is a matter of convenience to these people. A family member might have tried to drop him a rope, had there been time, a close friend might have promised to say goodbye to his mate, an acquaintance would not have laughed at the slaughter until after he was dead.”
Then Kaspar realized everyone on the wall was laughing, as if they had witnessed a brilliant performance by a court fool. “They think this is funny?”
“Different rules, Kaspar.” Kaspar looked at Kalkin and saw that the familiar smile was gone. “These creatures view horror as funny. It amuses them to see pain and suffering.”
“I’ve seen games down in Kesh,” said Kaspar. “I’ve seen men fight to the death, but they’re cheering, not laughter. It’s…a contest.”
“Here, suffering is an entertainment. The weak are to be purged from the collective body of the race, suffering is exploited; weakness marks you as a victim, power marks you as an exploiter; everything is a negotiation between people of roughly the same power, for if you are stronger than another, you take what you wish, and if you are weaker, you find a powerful patron to protect you in exchange for service. Murder is a pastime, and charity is unknown and unimagined. The only thing close to kindness is reserved for family, for if you find another’s child unattended, you kill it, for it may some day be a threat to your child. And you nurture your child, cultivating a sense of obligation and loyalty, against the day he may turn you out when you’re too old to be useful. You gain power from your family, your physical strength, your ability to use magic, or the patronage of your gods—and they are every bit as unyielding as the people who worship them.”
That was when Kaspar realized he had not seen a child anywhere. They must be hidden and protected by their mothers until they were old enough to defend themselves. “Harsh beyond sane words…” he whispered.
“Different rules,” said Kalkin again.
With a blink they were somewhere else.
“At sundown the Karana, the ruler, reviews his army.”
Kaspar looked and saw a palace, or something that reminded him of one, situated on the highest hill in the city. As they neared the central cou
rtyard, Kaspar was astonished at the scale of everything. The palace itself was as big as the citadel in Opardum, and half again, and its central courtyard was easily a quarter of a mile on each side.
Kalkin indicated a balcony marked by a massive red banner that hung below it, a banner bearing a black glyph and surrounded by a circle made up of tiny swords. Atop it there stood a creature who looked much like the others, save that he carried himself with obvious authority. Several females hung behind him, and Kaspar expected by the standards of this race they were comely, for they wore raiment that was relatively skimpy compared to what he had seen on the streets, and of brighter colors. The ruler wore a red cloak with some sort of white fur at the collar. Under this, he wore black armor trimmed in gold, like the Talnoy’s.
Across the courtyard thousands of armored figures marched, with drums pounding and horns blowing a dissonant flourish. “Those are Talnoys?” Kaspar asked.
“Yes,” said Kalkin. “They are slaves to the Karana, and slaughter at his whim. They have conquered nations and worlds, and each is occupied by the soul of a murdered Dasati.”
“What I’ve seen is chaos. How do these people keep order?”
“The same way a colony of ants or a hive of bees does, by instinct, by knowing who does what and not worrying about the fate of the individual. Should someone here be clever enough or powerful enough to slay the Karana, he would be the Karana the next day, and be hailed by those he ruled, for he had proven to be a stronger ruler, and therefore might protect his clients and vassals better.”
Suddenly they were somewhere else, and Kaspar felt the air was much warmer.
“We are on another continent,” said Kalkin. “It is afternoon here. Below, what you would consider ‘games’ are underway.”
Kaspar looked down at a stadium at least three times larger than that in the city of Kesh. At least two hundred thousand of the creatures could be seated in it, he judged.
On the floor of the arena several areas had been fenced off. And in each of them horrors were underway.